


Out of Control

by ashinan



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, Tony-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-03-02
Packaged: 2017-11-01 00:29:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashinan/pseuds/ashinan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s running on three days now, sixty seven hours and thirteen minutes, since Tony last slept.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of Control

**Author's Note:**

> I was in a weird mood.

The clank of machinery, the hiss of steam and shift of cooling metal, the coarse scrape of Dummy’s wheels sliding over the floor, is all background noise compared to the heavy beat thrumming through Tony’s mind. The numbers chatter in his vision, correcting his hands when they slip, adjusting for the heaviness in his eyelids, and nattering when he reaches for the wrong tool. It’s running on – check, _don’t you don’t want to know stop it_ , check – three days now, sixty seven hours and thirteen minutes, since he last slept. The metal skips in his hands and he absently corrects his movements, reforming the material like it’s liquid. Dummy carefully puts a wrench beside his hand and he grabs it up, cranks the bolt back and forth, and picks up the torch just seconds after.

Sixty seven hours. Seventeen minutes. He has just under five hours before someone truly notices that he hasn’t left the workshop. It will most likely be Steve. The fact that Tony has kept his failure to sleep hidden even from _Steve_ is worrisome, but it’s something he doesn’t want to think about right now. He grabs for the next tool.

There is a click-whir behind him and the side door opens, hot, hot air escaping with a screech of enjoyment. Tony bats away the noises like confetti, fitting the finished exoskeleton over the ribbing, shoving with shaking hands and shaking arms. He can do this. The door closes with a snarl. Check – _stop it you’re killing yourself why are you doing this stop –_ time; another thirteen minutes have passed and he bites at the inside of his cheek, ignoring the slip slide of red on his hands, the sting of multiple burns and cuts that he’s long ignored. Zeroes catch on his fingers, playing with the oil and blood mixing together and he slams the second piece into place.

Sound starts to filter out, giving over to white noise and he grabs for another piece of metal, fighting away the heavy drag of his limbs. He’s so close. He just needs to finish this last boot and he’ll be done, he’ll be _ready_ , and the noise gets louder, gets stronger, and it’s like an invisible weight is pressing down from above, crushing in its intensity.

He fights, because what else can he do? He struggles against it, little whimpers of protest catching in his damaged throat – _nineteen hours since you drank why wouldn’t you do even that coffee is liquid and the coffee mug is right beside you_ – and the pressure eases up when the metal cuts into the soft underside of his wrist, a splash of red mixing with the hot-rod colour he’s already fixing.

Numbers click into place, pulling him forward and he catches the easy six around the latches and fits the last piece into place. He fumbles for the wrench and manages to get it around the first bolt, turns it with relative ease and pants from the effort. The second and third are progressively harder but still simple. The fourth – he puts all his weight on the wrench, groaning as the bolt barely gives. He sucks in a breath and the numbers are momentarily scattered by blinding _pain_ , in his ribs, along his stomach, down his arms and circling his hands, across his cheekbones and the sides of his throat. He’s shaking with it, fingers barely able to keep hold of the wrench, but he has to _,_ has to just – _stop it stop it STOP IT –_ and he manages that final lurch of strength. The bolt screeches, gives under his assault, and there, it’s done.

He slumps forward, the shiny metal cool against his throbbing skin. Needles are drilling into his skull, that is the only explanation, and he makes the mistake of checking – _no please no more_ – and he finished it all within sixty eight hours and nine minutes. It’s fantastic and terrifying and he curls his arms around his head and sobs.  

There’s another whir-click and the air vacuums out again and he doesn’t look up, doesn’t even hear the shouting over the steady buzz of static in his ears. Hands are on him in seconds and he flinches away, too much pain, the pull of muscles and the slick slide of his own blood turning his stomach. The hands gentle, turn cautious, and he manages to catch sight of blonde and of red, of a white coat and of horrified expressions before he’s gathered up less than gently.

He thinks he screams.

The new Iron Man suit stands in the middle of the workshop, smeared bloody hand prints blotted on the metal.

…Sixty eight hours and nineteen minutes.


End file.
